I will not wreathe thy sunny hair
    With summer flowers;
Their breath and bloom will not outlast
    A few short hours.

I am too anxious in my love
    To bear to see
Those sweet but fragile flower leaves
    Wasting by thee.

They are so fresh, in loveliness
    So much like thine,
That evil omen does it seem
    To watch them pine.

Thus I should think, like these will fade
    Thy lip of rose—
Like those blue violets, thine eyes
    Grow dim and close.

I know the time will come, our star
    Of joy must set;
But that such grief must be I would
    At least forget.

Then let not, mid thy golden curls,
    Those blossoms sigh;
I cannot bear that even a flower
    Near thee should die.

For all too precious and too dear
    Thou art to me,
For me to brook aught that recalls
    I might lose Thee.⁠Ioloe.